Grave Matters
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The plots thicken.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and you can certainly see why.

Thanks (and apologies) to my very kind betas, Owl and Cheri.

**Grave Matters**

by L.M. Lewis

Mrs. Vassah leaned in over the refreshment table and admitted, "Your roses have shown exceptional improvement this year."

"Fertilizer," Hardcastle replied with precisely the tone of sweetness and light that he reserved for The Best Southern California Home Committee. It was a wholly unnatural inflection, but having won six years running, he'd be damned if he'd give up the traveling trophy now.

Out of one eye he saw Mark creep past, wearing a ratty, dirt-stained pair of cut-offs and a Panama hat, a shovel hefted over one shoulder. Last-minute preparations were all well and good, but it seemed a little late for titivating, what with the committee now chowing down on butter cookies and little cut-glass cups of Pinky Fizz.

He frowned and tried to steer the committee's chairwoman counterclockwise, away from that view. It was a little like getting the Titanic to go starboard of the iceberg. Luckily, McCormick had ducked out of sight again.

The judge found he had lost track of the conversation. Mrs. Vassah said something that sounded like, "That gardener of yours mentioned quick-lime."

"Ah . . ." Hardcastle frowned. He had a notion that McCormick had bought some recently for a composting project. He figured the kid was probably trying to impress some long-legged thing who was a member of the Izaak Walton League.

"Few people realize the importance of proper pH in soil maintenance," she added acidly.

His eyes snapped back into focus and his head nodded. Fortunately, the committee appeared to be done with the social aspects of the inspection. At any rate, this was rarely more than a perfunctory excuse to inhale a couple platefuls of cookies. The ladies were shuffling, nay, _waddling_ toward the gate, off to terrorize his competition.

He wished them luck and held his wave just long enough for their minivan to clear the sight-line as it turned onto the PCH. Then his arm dropped directly to his side as he cast a glance over his shoulder.

He felt a strange and unfamiliar reluctance seep through his marrow as he turned and headed slowly up the drive. He spotted McCormick again as he circled round to the left of the main house. He was standing near the back of the roses, wielding the shovel more as a blunt object, tamping down the soil at his feet.

Hardcastle approached cautiously and cleared his throat once while still a few yards away. The younger man gave the mound—for it was a mound—one last good thump before turning to face him.

"Hiya, Judge." His expression was sheepish, and perhaps just a tad guilty. "How'd it go with Vaster?"

"Vassah," Hardcastle corrected automatically. "Okay . . . well, three dozen cookies gone, like that." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the instantaneous nature of their departure. "What you been up to?" he added, all innocent curiosity.

"Me?" Mark gestured casually to himself with one hand. "Oh, not much."

His smile held for a moment, but then slid suddenly into something more abashed. He was constitutionally incapable of lying outright to the judge—fibs, deceits, deceptions, dishonesty, disinformation, distortions, evasions, fabrications, falsehoods, fictions, guile, hyperbole, inaccuracies, inventions, mendacity, misrepresentations, misstatements, myths, prevarication, subterfuge, tall stories, and whoppers—yes—but not an outright lie.

"We might have to go back to cable TV," Mark finally added pensively.

Hardcastle frowned.

"I'm sorry. I know how much you liked following the Yomiuri Giants, but . . ." His gaze dropped down toward the mound. He gave it one last perfunctory thump.

Hardcastle's jaw dropped open. He retrieved it with a sharp snap and then stuttered, "You killed _Willis_?"

Mark's expression went suddenly shocked. "Of _course_ not. Sheesh. What kind of a person do you think I am, Hardcase? I could never do something like that."

"Well," the judge found a sigh escaping; he felt slightly foolish.

"It was that new guy—Pauly." Mark shook his head slowly and gave the mound one _really_ last thump, then two more, just for luck. "My God; you know how many times we've had him out here to look at that dish in the last two months _alone_? And every time he came it was a new excuse. Power line interference, high waves." Mark stared out over the cliff and down toward the ocean, then shook his head one more time. "Today he said he thought it was the seagulls and, well, something snapped . . . sorry."

Hardcastle stared at him in disbelief. Mark returned it in kind.

"Ya know, it's not like _you've_ never had an off day," McCormick pointed out. "What about that time with the pool man?"

Hardcastle frowned and muttered, "He wasn't the regular guy."

"Yeah," Mark conceded, "he also wasn't wearing Kevlar, more's the pity. And then there was the UPS delivery man."

"I didn't recognize the return address on the package."

"Okay, maybe that one was justified," Mark sighed, looking over the rose garden with an air of despondency. "All I know is, we're running out of room here and all that quicklime is starting to mess with the pH." He shot a quick look at the judge. "You didn't have any trouble with any of the committee ladies, did you?"

"Not this year," Hardcastle assured him.

"Good." Mark heaved a sigh of relief. "If you ask me that was just a _leetle_ too much of the dramatic irony that time you bashed one of them with the trophy."

"I had to," Hardcastle grudged sullenly.

"Just because she figured out I'd spray-painted the south forty green? We had a _drought _that year, for Pete's sake."

"It's grounds for disqualification."

"Hmmph . . . maybe so, but if you ask me, that's a pretty loose definition of flagrant necessity."

"Well," Hardcastle gestured toward the flattened mound, "our excuses were at least better than his."


End file.
